


Friendship Is The Precise Colour Of Boredom

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jumper - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is cold.  John is long-suffering.  Jumpers are beige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendship Is The Precise Colour Of Boredom

**Author's Note:**

> This was written between series 1 and 2, and is canon compliant for what we knew then.

The weather was predictably cold and wet for the time of year, the frosty, unforgiving winter bleeding out into a blustery, unwelcoming spring. The flat felt cold and damp. Whoever Mrs Hudson had got in to do the boarding up had certainly done a half-hearted job - there were gaps for the draughts and rain to get in all over the place. John was slightly surprised that Mycroft hadn't stepped in to get the repairs done, but he seemed preoccupied with the Bruce Partington project plans going missing (and wasn't that just a bloody stupid name? Hard to take national security seriously if they give projects names like that).

The first couple of days hadn't been too bad; they'd spent most of their time running around playing Moriarty's game, or tracking down the plans. But after the pool, when they were both stuck in the flat for longer periods, trying to rest and recover - at least John was trying to rest and recover, Sherlock's first priority seemed to be driving John insane by acting like a petulant two-year old - they could both feel the cold seeping into their bones.

The nights were the worst. During the day John could keep them both topped up with hot tea, and could even persuade Sherlock to eat most evenings. But as the outside temperatures dropped, John would swap jeans and shirts for pyjamas, keep his jumper and socks on and retire to bed, encouraging Sherlock to do the same. Most mornings he found Sherlock foul-tempered and shivering on the sofa where he'd left him.

John was doing better than Sherlock. He was at least able to swaddle himself with layers of tee shirts, shirts, and jumpers under his jacket; Sherlock's wardrobe was designed with looks rather than comfort in mind. John had more body fat too; Sherlock looked slightly emaciated at the best of times, but now John was starting to get worried at how often he caught Sherlock trying to suppress shivers, and at the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, indicating that the lack of sleep was really starting to have an effect.

Sherlock was struggling. He'd fallen - or been pushed - into the Thames on no less than twelve different occasions, and was confident that an analysis of the empirical data that he'd gathered would give statistically significant support to the hypothesis that the Thames was Really Very Cold Indeed no matter the time of year. The pool had been heated. It should have been almost luxurious, between that and the heat of the explosion. And yet, Sherlock had felt chilled to the bone ever since Lestrade had pulled him from the water. He ignored the fact that John had saved his life by rugby-tackling him into the pool as he fired into the bomb-jacket. He ignored the fact that he had saved John's life by holding the unconscious doctor's head above the water for several minutes. The only facts he seemed to be able to focus on were that Moriarty's body hadn't been found, and that he hadn't felt warm - not once, not even for a moment - since hitting the water.

John had offered Sherlock the loan of a jumper, but Sherlock had merely snorted, glared, and ostentatiously turned his back, burrowing even further into the sofa, in what John was coming to think of as Sulky Flounce Number Three.

Sherlock had pointedly ignored John's suggestion that he might find it easier to sleep if he warmed up and went to bed. The idea of sleeping whilst Moriarty was still out there was abhorrent. The idea of warming up though, that was tempting. One the one hand, giving into his body's demands was not in his nature; a little physical discomfort kept him sharp, it kept him functioning . On the other hand, he was so cold. It had crept into his bones and he couldn't shake it. His nose was red and dripped insufferably. His fingers and toes were either stinging or stiff and numb. His fingernails looked blue. He _shivered_.

Without the adrenaline rush of an active case to work on - and with John being so infuriatingly pedestrian about the need to "rest" and "recover" - Sherlock finally had to admit that he was becoming increasingly affected by the lack of sleep. But every time he tried to ease himself into a nap on the sofa, he started to shiver and found himself up and pacing about, hugging himself for warmth. The fact that John seemed to be coping better, and recovering from his injuries faster, only added to Sherlock's discontent.

Sherlock sat, shivering, on the sofa. _This is intolerable_ , he thought. He couldn't ask John for help, not after all of his talk about "just transport". At the same time, it was patently ridiculous to not avail himself of a practical solution to his problem.

John was happily snoozing, on the edge of a deep sleep, nestled under two duvets and a blanket, when he felt a cold draft and the mattress shifting next to him. Two seconds later he was bolt upright, his right hand raised in self-defence, his left fist slamming hard into the intruder. A second after that there was a thud and a groan, followed by an aggrieved "Ouch".

"Sherlock?"

"Of course." _You imbecile_

"Sherlock, what the fuck? Are you OK?"

"I was rather better before you punched me in the sternum, but I'm sure it wasn't a fatal blow. All the evidence points to my still being alive, thank you."

"Oh good, that's lovely. I'm glad you survived. Now what the fuck are you doing? And get off the floor, for god's sake."

John was already settling himself back under his cosy nest of covers as he grumbled. Sherlock stood with an air of injured dignity.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"John."

"Sherlock."

" _John._ "

" _What?_ "

"I'm cold."

"I'm not bloody surprised, you're standing around a freezing flat in a pair of skimpy PJs and a dressing gown that's so thin it's almost transparent."

"My pyjamas and dressing gown are perfectly sui -"

"Sherlock, what do you _want_?"

"Um. Can I get into bed with you?"

"You want to share my bed?"

"Yes. For warmth."

"Hmm."

"That's not an answer, John."

John looked up. Sherlock was now properly shivering. John hadn't been joking about the inadequacy of Sherlock nightwear to protect him from the cold. Under normal circumstances, he'd never consider sharing his bed with a flatmate. He understood the importance of boundaries, even if Sherlock didn't. But circumstances were so very rarely normal around Sherlock, and even in that context, this was an unusual situation.

"You idiot. Yes. Don't hog the covers."

Sherlock was in the bed before John had finished speaking. He wriggled and squirmed a bit, relishing the warmth. He wasn't deliberately snuggling up against John, but it was impossible to avoid all contact.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Is there a problem?"

"Yes, there's a bloody problem! Your bloody feet, they're like blocks of ice. Blocks of ice against my back, you sod. Why aren't you wearing socks?"

"Socks? In bed? I don't think my tailor would -"

"Oh, shut up." John heaved himself out of bed, and grumbled his way over to a chest of drawers. He rummaged for a few minutes, then threw several items of clothing at Sherlock.

"Put that lot on."

"John, I appreciate the thought, but really? A jumper?" Sherlock held up a chunky shapeless item of knitwear, no doubt once described as "oatmeal" or "beige", but which was, in fact, the precise colour of boredom.

"Put it on - and the glove and socks - or bugger off and leave me to sleep in peace."

Sherlock stared, but John was already nestling back into the warmth. Huffing ostentatiously, Sherlock pulled on the thick socks - oh, cotton- _blend_ , ugh - and wiggled his toes about until they felt comfy. He inspected the fingerless gloves; he'd seen many of his homeless network wearing similar items. They seemed particularly suitable for facilitating financial transactions during cold weather, allowing those of them selling The Big Issue to count and handle coins. Why did John own a pair? Surely with the ends of the fingers missing, the gloves would fail to keep his hands warm? He put them on anyway, hoping he'd be able to comment on their ineffectiveness to John in the morning. He eyed the jumper warily.

"Sherlock."

John's tone had been grumbling rather than angry so far, but there was an edge of warning in it now. Sherlock pouted as he pulled on the jumper. He pulled the front up to his face; it smelt of fabric conditioner, but not too strongly - John must have worn it at least briefly since the last time it was laundered. Sherlock inhaled again. It smelt like John; warm and grumpy and unshakable.

Sherlock burrowed into the bed.

"'m sorry I punched you." John's voice was muffled with sleep, and the pillow into which he'd buried his face.

"I'm sorry you punched me too." That earned him a gentle kick to the shin, and he could have sworn he heard the word "tosser" being muttered. Sherlock smiled. If John had seen, he would have noted that it was the first time Sherlock had smiled since the swimming pool.

"Goodnight, John."

"Mmph."

Sherlock could feel the cold leaving him, as if he were bleeding ice and being infused with warmth. The image of a blissful, warm, blood transfusion stayed with him as he drifted into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in March 2011 for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/3114.html?thread=8869418#t8869418): "It takes a while for the Baker Street flat to get repaired after the explosion in TGG, and the flat gets very cold at night. Sherlock takes to getting into John's bed to keep him warm.


End file.
